There’s leavening in the beer--
That’s why the foam is here.
And don’t you think that it’s queer
That bread don’t give head as does the beer?

There leavening in the wine--
That is why it tastes so fine.
I drink it till I’m nearly blind
And the keys to my house I can’t find.

There’s leavening when we fear--
Adrenaline it’s clear
Will prompt us to clear right out of here,
Hie to a nearby bar, buy a beer.

There’s seven upended mugs
In front of me; I’ve glugged
’em down, chased with bourbon slugs. . .
A girl slugs me ’cause I tugged her jugs.

I’s leavened from thoughts of sex. . .
Started to inflect.
Her muscular punch made me deflect--
My breast caress’d caused her to vex.

No leavening at Passo’er--
Flat bread is such a bore.
I’ll dash flat-out to the store
For bread, sex, beer and secs: ekht* wine to pour.


*real, genuine